Wolves of War

by Martin Lake

  Ivar looked at him doubtfully, uncoiling his legs like a snake waking up.

  ‘It does you credit that you protect your brother so readily, Guthrum,’ he said. ‘Just be sure he is worth your concern.’

  Guthrum inclined his head but did not answer.

  ‘And so,’ Ivar continued, ‘I am left wondering what to do with you two.’

  He got to his feet and placed a hand on Leif and Sigurd’s shoulders. ‘It is a puzzle. Some say that all men are free to choose their lord or leave him. In which case, you are guilty of no crime.’

  He gave them a winning smile. Leif grinned back.

  ‘But on the other hand,’ he continued. ‘some believe that any man who seeks to flee from a lord without even the courtesy of asking to be released is a miscreant of the worst kind and a coward into the bargain.’

  Again, he smiled, although this time, Leif thought it wisest if he kept his own face straight.

  ‘Now I puzzle which I believe?’ He turned to his brothers. ‘First let us hear from my kin.’

  ‘I say that such a man is a criminal,’ said Halfdan, ‘and deserves death.’

  ‘I think otherwise,’ Ubbe said. ‘All Vikings are free men. They have the right to choose their lord at any time. I agree that it was discourteous for them not to discuss it with you, Ivar, cowardly even. But it’s not criminal. We should let them live. But as they have besmirched our reputation they should become our slaves.’

  Ivar nodded thoughtfully, considering the recommendations of his brothers. He turned back to Leif and Sigurd, held his arms wide, gave a wry little smile and shrugged.

  ‘You see, dear friends, how hard it is to come to a right conclusion?’

  He sighed and put his finger to his temple, tapping it repeatedly as if he would cudgel out the best answer.

  ‘I need longer to decide,’ he said at last. ‘But in the meanwhile, I will hang you up by your ankles. To keep you safe, you understand, while I think.’

  Then he clapped his hand. ‘And while you are hanging, Skald, you can conjure a tale for us. Once you have one I will release you so you can recite it. It shall give me enough time to make up my mind about your fate.’

  Four men dragged Leif and Sigurd to a nearby tree. They tied strong ropes to their ankles and cast the other end over a branch. Then they were hauled up and left dangling a dozen feet in the air.

  ‘We shall soon see our father and mother,’ Sigurd said. ‘They will be disappointed to see us so soon.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Leif answered. ‘I have to think up with a tale.’

  They hung from the branch while the sun descended to the west. A strong wind blew off the sea. It was this which kept the fleet from setting off. It also made Leif and Sigurd spin like onions drying in the wind.

  At last, Leif clapped his hands and gestured towards a man who was sitting watching them. ‘I have a tale,’ he called. ‘Go tell Ivar I have a tale.’

  Ivar and his brothers sauntered up to the tree.

  ‘You have a tale?’ Ivar asked. ‘Then let us hear it.’

  ‘I can’t tell you when I’m strung up like this,’ Leif said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s blasphemous. Odin hung himself upon a tree to gain all knowledge. I cannot sing a song from such a position. It will look like I am mocking him.’

  Ivar considered this for a moment and then ordered him cut loose. Sigurd, however, was left hanging.

  Leif brushed himself down and bowed to the three brothers. ‘I have my tale,’ he said. ‘A marvellous and honest tale.’

  Ivar gestured for a bench to be brought and the three brothers sat at ease while Leif shuffled nervously in front of them. Two score other men came and sat on the ground close by.

  ‘I tell the tale of Ivar the Boneless and the Emperor of Miklagard,’ Leif began. He glanced at Ivar to see his reaction.

  He nodded enthusiastically for Leif to continue.

  Good, Leif thought, he likes himself well. Very good. He licked his dry lips and raised his voice high.

  ‘Miklagard,’ he said, ‘the great city of the Romans, was ruled by the Emperor Michael, named Drunkard for his excesses. This foolish, weak lord grew angry in his palace for his people had heard rumour of the great warrior Ivar the Boneless and many whispered that he would be a better lord than Michael.’

  Ivar nodded in appreciation. He knew that Leif was lying, of course, but he liked the lie.

  ‘One day, Michael invited Ivar to come to Miklagard as an honoured guest,’ Leif continued. ‘The honest, trusting Ivar, journeyed there alone, confident that his good name and reputation would guarantee him a warm welcome. But, alas, the vile Michael imprisoned him the moment he set foot on the golden pavements of the city. Ivar was held prisoner in a fetid hole for half a year, trussed by cruel bonds and fed only on rotting bread, dead rodents and the water from the sewers.’

  Here the audience gasped and Leif was pleased to see that Ivar was one of them.

  ‘Weaker men, would have perished,’ Leif said, ‘any man would have done. But not the mighty Ivar. He kept himself alive by plotting how to escape and seek his revenge.

  ‘It so happened that Ivar was not alone in his cell. Two rats of immense size had inhabited it for a while. Now Ivar fed them some of his bread until they grew to trust him. Little by little he enticed them closer by lying a trail of crumbs for them to follow. In the end, after many painstaking months, he laid the bread against the ropes about his wrists. And while the rats nibbled on the bread, perforce, they also bit upon his bonds. Eventually, after many more days, they gnawed through the ropes. The mighty Ivar was free.’

  At this point the audience turned to Ivar to show their admiration at his cunning. He shrugged off their plaudits in a modest manner.

  ‘Ivar strode to Michael the Drunkard’s Palace,’ Leif continued. ‘The Emperor’s naked slave girls fled at the approach of the wronged hero but crept after him to see how he would pay back their hated master. They did not have to wait long.

  ‘The Emperor’s guards flung down their weapons at the approach of the mighty Viking and loudly proclaimed that he would make a far worthier Emperor. But Ivar said that he was content to be the lord of free northern men, strong in battle, skilled in love and strong in honour. He did not wish for the Emperor’s golden throne. But he did desire vengeance.’

  At this point the audience fell silent. The only sound was the noise of Sigurd creaking in the wind above Leif’s head.

  ‘And what a vengeance he exacted,’ Leif said quietly, turning to gaze at Ivar with adulation in his eyes.

  ‘He gave the Emperor a choice. He would cut away one of his appendages: his ears with which he could hear the gong announcing the start of a feast, his nose with which he could smell his food and wine, his tongue by which he could taste them. Or, and this was Ivar’s final choice, his prick with which he could service the thousand wives and slave girls he owned.

  ‘The Emperor said this: “I need my ears to hear those who whisper sedition against me. I love my nose for it allows me to scent my food and nose out the stench of those ingrate beggars who would do me harm. I cherish my tongue for it is a worthy servant, allowing me to savour all wine and food and the delicate flesh of my women. But, as for my prick, I am so much a sot I have no more use for it. It will not rise, it will not harden. So take it and begone.”

  ‘And here the drunken Emperor pulled out his flaccid piece of flesh and handed Ivar a knife. Our intrepid hero wasted not a moment but immediately severed the useless ornament from the Emperor’s groin. The Emperor pronounced Ivar his lord and master and suggested that his prick be broiled and served to the highest priest in the land who claimed it was the tastiest morsel he had ever eaten.’

  Leif gave a deep bow to Ivar and basked in the storm of cheers and applause that followed.

  ‘You are indeed a wonderful teller of tales,’ Ivar said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Because of this I will spare your life and that of your brother. But you
must serve me until the end of your days. And you will. I forgive your foolish flight from me. I sense that you will be wise enough to remember never to do such a thing again.’

  ACROSS THE WHALE ROAD

  The prow of the longship sliced through the waves like a sword through flesh. It was now near the end of September, a foolish time to sail for the winds blew hard and fierce.

  It was even more foolish to launch an attack upon an enemy country. Winter would soon settle upon the land and armies would find it difficult to move. Even worse, stores of food would dwindle and the people grow hungrier day by day. There was every likelihood that an army would starve to death. Yet Ivar, Halfdan and Ubbe appeared to have no worries about their expedition. Many of the warriors working the oars may have felt differently but, if they did, none dared show it.

  Leif hung onto the gunwale and peered gloomily at the surf frothing on either side. They had been three days at sea and every hour had been a nightmare. He had been put to an oar on the second day out but he was so clumsy that Ivar had cuffed and cursed him and forbidden him to row anymore. He did not complain; the flesh on his hands had been shredded by the oar. Instead he had been put at the front of the ship and told to look out for danger.

  ‘Any ships,’ Ubbe explained to him, ‘or a sandbank or rock.’

  His eyes smarted from the sting of the salt sea but he comforted himself that it was better than rowing.

  Sigurd, on the other hand, took to the oar like a babe to its mother’s teat. He was used to hard physical labour and so familiar with the rhythm of the hammer upon the anvil that he found it no problem to row in time. Leif envied him but not for this. Sigurd readily accepted his lot in life and, now he had got over his initial shock, their change in fortune appeared not to distress him over-much.

  Unlike Leif. He had too great an imagination. It was both a blessing and a curse. Now it proved a curse.

  The fleet was sailing a few miles west of the coast to avoid treacherous sand-banks where even the shallow-draught longships might go aground. Leif grew convinced that the sand-banks were the coils of the world-serpent, fearsome enemy of Thor, and that at any moment it would writhe, leap out of the water and trap them. He muttered constant prayers to Thor to protect them until he suddenly realised that the great god might think he was invoking him and send a terrible tempest to his aid. A tempest which, far from aiding them, would sink and destroy the fleet.

  He clamped his mouth shut. Many skalds feared that Loki, god of mischief would ensnare their voice. Such an event could prove their undoing. Leif was such a skald. When things grew difficult he readily blamed the deity, and then fell into fits of terror lest Loki heard and turned his baleful attention fully upon him. He whistled loudly, to keep any more words springing treacherously to his lips.

  ‘Shut up that bloody whistling,’ Ubbe cried from the rear.

  ‘Let him,’ Ivar said. ‘It will keep the demons at bay.’

  Leif whistled more loudly still. From the first hour of their journey he learned that, although Halfdan and Ubbe were older and more physically powerful, Ivar was the real leader of the army. It was his vision which had inspired them and now, his subtle will infused every warrior and made them row with relentless endurance. Each mile would bring them closer to the fabled land of the Angles where crops grew faster than a winter storm, where gold and jewels filled the coffers of the monks and where maidens outnumbered men three-fold and were the most lascivious in all the world.

  Leif gave a grim smile. Good food, much gold and frolicsome women were all fine things but not if they were bought by sword blows or shattered bones. Thank the gods that I’m a skald and not a warrior, he thought.

  It was at that moment that Ivar hailed him.

  ‘Come here, Skald,’ he cried.

  Leif gulped and made his way unsteadily between the lines of rowers.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Ivar thrust a spear at him. ‘I realise you have no weapon. You cannot be part of my army without a weapon.’

  ‘But I am your skald,’ Leif said. ‘I’m not a warrior.’

  ‘That’s abundantly clear. But if you’re to sing about the deeds of warriors you must be close to them in battle. And then, even if not a warrior, you will be grateful for this spear.’

  Leif looked at the weapon. A five-foot shaft of ash was topped with a gleaming iron tip as sharp as any knife. He imagined thrusting it into the body of an enemy and felt sick.

  ‘Would I not be better with a sword?’ he asked, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

  ‘If you want to die,’ Ivar said. ‘A sword needs skill to wield it. Any fool can stick a foe with a spear.’ He dismissed Leif with a gesture.

  Leif trudged back to his post. He did not wish for any weapon, least of all a second rate one which he sensed he’d be unable to wield. He glanced suspiciously at the crewmen. He felt certain that one of them must be Loki in disguise.

  But by the time he reached the prow he decided to make the best of things. He stood upright, spear by his side, and hoped that he would appear at least a little like a warrior. He knew that he would not fool any of the men in the ship and almost certainly would have as little success with any Saxon or Angle warrior. But he might, perhaps, dupe a young maiden and she would open her legs to him.

  He spent the next few hours playing out such scenarios in his mind. Some of the girls were blonde, others with hair the flaming red of a setting sun, a few with tresses as black as jet. But all were virgins, although astonishingly expert in sexual matters. They were as naive as children in believing his claims to be a famous warrior, indeed, a prince or king of a far northern kingdom. But once he had inveigled them into bed they proved lovers of amazing skill, enthusiasm and physical prowess. And they were reckless, lewd and wanton to the most remarkable degree.

  ‘Leif, what the hell are you doing?’

  Asgrim, the oarsman closest to him had felt the pull on his oar which signified they were getting too close to a sandbank.

  The helmsman also saw this and threw his weight against the steering board. The ship slewed to the right and freed itself from the monstrous grip of the sand-bank.

  ‘Do you want us all killed?’ Ivar yelled at him.

  Not at all, Leif thought. Not with all those wonderful maidens waiting for me in England.

  They sailed southwards for a little longer and then, after sniffing the wind, Ivar commanded the helmsman to turn and head for the setting sun. Leif felt sick with terror. Were they really going to sail across the open sea in the black of the night? And Ivar had accused him of wanting to get them killed. This was madness. Leif glanced behind. The whole fleet had turned in their wake and were following steadfastly. They might be doomed but they were not alone.

  He sunk down to the deck and peered over the gunwale as the ship headed out into the vast black of the sea. Seagulls cried overhead, as if warning them of their folly. All too soon they fell back, no longer daring the risks which the Vikings seemed so keen to embrace.

  The sun dipped towards the horizon, turning a bright, glowing red. A little later it settled upon the waters and it seemed to Leif that blood was leaching out of it to stain and poison the sea. Huge scarlet streaks surged into the sky, as if the whole sea were aflame. He closed his eyes at the horror of it but immediately opened them again, bewitched by the sunset’s terrible beauty.

  The wind from the land grew stronger and began to fill the sail. Ivar ordered the men to ship oars and there were many cries of relief at this.

  The sky grew dim and, after a little while, all trace of light ebbed from the west. Leif glanced up. Stars began to appear in the deepening night, a wealth of jewels far richer than those that Ivar and his men were seeking. He shuddered at the chill beauty of them.

  He glanced ahead and gasped in fear. He could barely see in front of him. But as his vision died so his other senses quickened. He felt the rise and fall of the ship, heard the hull crashing into the waves, the creak of the complaining timbers
, the slap and crack of the sail. The scent of the sea grew strong in his nostrils, of waters full of sharp salt overlaid with a curiously clean yet bitter stink which gripped his nose and throat. But these senses could not show him the way and gave him no comfort. He was lost, blind, racing towards his doom.

  He turned towards where Sigurd was sitting. He could not see him but could hear him snoring. He glared. It must be fortunate to go to one’s death in such an unheeding manner. He aimed a kick at him but it did not wake him.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye he saw a glint of silver on the eastern horizon. He breathed a sigh of thanks to Máni, god of the moon. He would be a lantern for them, he would lead the way to safety.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ Asgrim called to him. ‘We reach land tomorrow and you’ll need your wits about you.’

  Leif settled himself down but sleep was slow in coming. Eventually his eyes began to droop. He glanced once more at the moon to be certain that it was still lighting the way and succumbed.

  LANDFALL

  Leif woke with a start. The sun had risen and was streaming onto his face. He glanced around. He was still in the longship, he had not drowned or been eaten by sea serpents. He sighed contentedly at his escape.

  Most of the oarsmen were still asleep, Sigurd more deeply than most. For a moment he wondered whether to wake him but thought it better to let him get as much rest as possible. If there was going to be any trouble from the English he wanted his brother to be as strong and alert as possible.

  His bladder was full and he could ignore it no longer. He climbed to his feet, unfastened his breeches and, clinging tightly to the gunwale, relieved himself in the sea.

  ‘That won’t increase it,’ Asgrim said with a grin. He was wide awake and already chewing on a loaf of bread. He tore a lump from it and threw it to Leif who missed it and had to scramble to find it before it rolled into some inaccessible cranny.